Seizure

prologue

Monday, February 22, 2001, was one of those surprisingly warm midwinter days that falsely prophesied the arrival of spring to the inhabitants of the Atlantic seaboard. The sun was bright all the way from Maine to the tip of the Florida Keys, providing a temperature variation astonishingly less than twenty degrees Fahrenheit. It was to be a normal, happy day for the vast majority of people living within this lengthy littoral, although for two exceptional individuals, it was to be the start of a series of events that would ultimately cause their lives to tragically intersect.

1:35 P.M.

Cambridge, Massachusetts

Daniel Lowell looked up from the pink phone message he held in his hand. Two things made it unique: First, the caller was Dr. Heinrich Wortheim, Chairman of the Department of Chemistry at Harvard, saying he wanted to see Dr. Lowell in his office, and second, the little box labeled URGENT was marked with a bold X. Dr. Wortheim always communicated by letter and expected a letter in return. As one of the world’s premier chemists occupying Harvard’s lofty and heavily endowed department chair, he was eccentrically Napoleonic. He rarely mixed directly with the hoi polloi that included Daniel, even though Daniel was head of his own department, which came under Wortheim’s authority.

“Hey, Stephanie!” Daniel called out across the lab. “Did you see this phone message on my desk? It’s from the emperor. He wants to see me in his office.”

Stephanie looked up from the dissecting stereomicroscope she’d been using and glanced at Daniel. “That doesn’t sound good,” she said.

“You didn’t say anything to him, did you?”

“How would I have a chance to say anything to him? I’ve only seen him twice during my entire Ph.D. travail-when I defended my dissertation and when he handed me my diploma.”

“He must have some idea about our plans,” Daniel surmised. “I suppose it’s not too surprising, considering all the people I’ve approached to be on our scientific advisory board.”

“Are you going to go?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

It was only a short walk from the lab to the building that housed the departmental administrative offices. Daniel knew he was facing a confrontation of sorts, but it didn’t matter. In fact, he was looking forward to it.

The moment Daniel appeared, the departmental secretary motioned him to go directly into Wortheim’s inner sanctum. He found the aging Nobel laureate behind his antique desk. With his white hair and thin face, Wortheim appeared older than his purported seventy-two years. But his appearance did not diminish his commanding personality, which radiated from him like a magnetic field.

“Please sit down, Dr. Lowell,” Wortheim said, regarding his visitor over the top of his wire-rimmed reading glasses. He had had a trace German accent despite his having lived in the United States most of his life.

Daniel did as he was told. He knew a faint, insouciant smile, which he was certain would not be missed by the department head, lingered on his face. Despite Wortheim’s age, his faculties were as sharp as ever and attuned to any slight. And the fact that Daniel was supposed to kowtow to this dinosaur was part of the reason he was so certain of his decision to leave academia. Wortheim was brilliant, and he’d won a Nobel Prize, but he was still mired in last century’s inorganic synthetic chemistry. Organic chemistry in the form of proteins and their respective genes was the present and future of the field.

It was Wortheim who broke the silence after the two men had eyed each other. “I gather from your expression that the rumors are true.”

“Could you be more specific?” Daniel responded. He wanted to be sure his suspicions were correct. He hadn’t planned to make an announcement for another month.

“You have been forming a scientific advisory board,” Wortheim said. He got to his feet and began to pace. “An advisory board can mean only one thing.” He stopped and stared at Daniel with acrimonious disdain. “You’re planning to tender your resignation, and you have or you are about to found a company.”

“Guilty as accused,” Daniel proclaimed. He couldn’t keep his smile from expanding to a full grin. A deep red had suffused over Wortheim’s face. Undoubtedly, Wortheim equated the situation to Benedict Arnold’s traitorous behavior during the American Revolutionary War.

“I personally went out on a limb when you were recruited,” Wortheim snapped. “We even built the laboratory facility that you demanded.”

“I won’t be taking the lab with me,” Daniel responded. He couldn’t believe Wortheim was trying to make him feel guilty.

“Your flippancy is galling.”

“I could apologize, but it would be insincere.”

Wortheim returned to his desk. “Your leaving is going to put me in a difficult position with the president of the university.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Daniel said. “I can say that in all sincerity. But this kind of bureaucratic shenanigan is part of the reason I’m not going to miss academia.”

“What else?”

“I’m tired of sacrificing my research time for teaching.”

“Your teaching burden is one of the least onerous in the department. We negotiated that when you came on board.”

“It still keeps me from my research. But that’s not the major issue, either. I want to reap the benefits of what my creativity has produced. Winning prizes and getting articles in scientific journals isn’t enough.”

“You want to be a celebrity.”

“I suppose that’s one way to put it. And the money will be nice, too. Why not? People with half my ability have done it.”

“Have you ever read Arrowsmith by Sinclair Lewis?”

“I don’t have much chance to read novels.”

“Maybe you should take the time,” Wortheim suggested scornfully. “It might make you rethink this decision before it’s irreversible.”

“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” Daniel said. “I think it is the right thing for me.”

“Would you like my opinion?”

“I think I know what your opinion is.”

“I think it’s going to be a disaster for both of us, but mainly for you.”

“Thank you for your words of encouragement,” Daniel said. He stood up. “See you around the campus.” Then he walked out.

5:15 P.M.

Washington, D.C.

“Thank you all for coming to see me,” Senator Ashley Butler said in his usual cordial, Southern drawl. With a smile plastered onto his doughy face, he glad-handed a group of eager-faced men and women who’d leapt to their feet the moment he burst into his small senate office conference room along with his chief of staff. The visitors were grouped around the central oak library table. They were representatives of a small business organization from the senator’s state capital who were lobbying for tax relief, or maybe it was insurance relief. The senator did not remember exactly, and it wasn’t on his schedule as it should have been. He made a mental note to bring the lapse up with his office manager. “I’m sorry I’m late coming in here,” he continued, after energetically pumping the last person’s hand. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you folks, and I wanted to get in here sooner, but it’s been one of those days.” He rolled his eyes for emphasis. “Unfortunately, because of the hour and another pressing engagement, I can’t stay. I’m sorry, but Mike here is great.”

The senator gave the staffer assigned to meet with the group an acknowledging slap on the shoulder, urging the young man forward until his thighs were pressed up against the table. “Mike’s the best I’ve got, and he’ll listen to your problems and then brief me. I’m sure we can help, and we want to help.”

The senator gave Mike’s shoulder another series of pats, along with an admiring smile like a proud father’s at his son’s graduation.

In a chorus, the visitors thanked the senator for seeing them, especially in view of his demanding schedule. Zealous smiles defined each and every face. If the people were disappointed at the brevity of the meeting and the fact that they’d had to wait almost a half hour, they didn’t show it in the slightest.

“It’s my pleasure,” Ashley gushed. “We’re here to serve.”

Spinning around, Ashley turned to leave. As he reached the door, he waved. His home-state visitors responded in kind.

“That was easy,” Ashley murmured to Carol Manning, his long-term chief of staff, who’d followed from the conference room at her boss’s heels. “I was afraid they were going to hogtie me with a litany of sad stories and unreasonable demands.”

“They seemed like nice people,” Carol said vaguely.

“Do you think Mike can handle them?”

“I don’t know,” Carol said. “He’s not been here long enough for me to have much of an idea.”

Leading the way, the senator strode down the long hall toward his private office. He glanced at his watch. It was five-twenty in the afternoon. “I assume you remember where you are taking me now.”

“Of course,” Carol said. “We’re going back to Dr. Whitman’s office.”

The senator shot a reproachful look in Carol’s direction while pressing his forefinger against his lips. “That’s hardly for general consumption,” he whispered irritably.

Without the slightest acknowledgment of his office manager, Dawn Shackelton, Ashley grabbed the papers she held up as he passed her desk and entered his private office. The papers included a preliminary schedule for the following day, along with a list of the calls that had come in during the time he’d been over at the capital for a late roll call vote, plus the transcript of an impromptu interview with someone from CNN who’d waylaid him in the hall.

“I’d better get my car,” Carol said after glancing at her own watch. “We’re due at the doctor’s office at six-thirty, and there’s no telling what kind of traffic we’ll be facing.”

“Good idea,” Ashley said, going around behind his desk while glancing at the list of calls.

“Should I pick you up at the corner of C and Second?”

Ashley merely grunted an affirmative. A number of the calls were important, coming from the heads of several of his many political action committees. As far as he was concerned, fund-raising was the most important part of his job, especially since he was facing a reelection campaign for the November after next. He heard the door close behind Carol. For the first time all day, a silence descended over him. He raised his eyes. Also for the first time all day, he was alone.

Instantaneously, the anxiety he’d felt upon awakening that morning spread through him like a wildfire. He could feel it from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his fingers. He’d never liked going to the doctor. When he was a child, it had been the simple fear of a shot or some other painful or embarrassing experience. But as he’d gotten older, the fear had changed and had become more powerful and distressing. Seeing the doctor had become an unwelcome reminder of his mortality and the fact that he was no longer a spring chicken. Now it was as if the mere act of going to the doctor increased his chances of having to face some horrible diagnosis like cancer or, worse yet, ALS-also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease.

A few years earlier, one of Ashley’s brothers had been diagnosed with ALS after experiencing some vague neurological symptoms. After the diagnosis, the powerfully built and athletically inclined man who’d been much more of a picture of health than Ashley had rapidly become a cripple and within months had died. The doctors had been helpless.

Ashley absently placed the papers onto his desk and stared off into the distance. He too had begun to have some vague neurological symptoms a month earlier. At first he just dismissed them, attributing their appearance to the stress of his work or having drunk too much coffee or not having gotten a good night’s sleep. The symptoms waxed and waned but never went away. In fact, they slowly seemed to get worse. The most distressing was the intermittent shaking of his left hand. On a few occasions it had been necessary for him to hold it with his right hand to keep people from noticing. Then there was the feeling of sand in his eyes, making them water embarrassingly. And finally there was an occasional sensation of stiffness that could make standing up and starting to walk a mental and physical effort.

A week earlier, the problem had finally driven him to see the doctor despite his superstitious reluctance to do so. He didn’t go to Walter Reed or the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda. He was too afraid the media would discover that something was amiss. Ashley didn’t need that kind of publicity. After almost thirty years in the Senate he’d become a powerhouse and a force to be reckoned with, despite his reputation as an obstructionist who regularly bucked his party’s dictates. Indeed, with his advocacy and consistency on various fundamentalist and populist issues like states’ rights and prayer in school, and his anti-affirmative-action and anti-abortion stances, he’d succeeded in blurring party lines while developing a growing national constituency. Reelection to the senate would not be a problem with his well-oiled political machinery. What Ashley had his sights on was a run for the White House in 2004. He didn’t need anyone speculating or circulating rumors about his health.

Once Ashley had overcome his reluctance to seek a medical opinion, he visited a private internist in Virginia whom he’d seen in the past and whose discretion he could trust. The internist in turn immediately referred him to Dr. Whitman, a neurologist.

Dr. Whitman had been noncommittal, although hearing Ashley’s specific fears, he said he doubted the problem involved ALS. After giving a thorough exam and sending him for some tests, including an MRI, Dr. Whitman had not offered a diagnosis but instead gave Ashley a prescription to see if it would help the symptoms. He’d then scheduled Ashley to return in a week when all the tests’ results would be back. He’d said that he thought he’d be able to make a diagnosis at that time. It was this visit Ashley was now facing.

Ashley ran a hand across his brow. Some perspiration had appeared, despite the coolness of the room. He could feel that his pulse was racing. What if he had ALS after all? What if he had a brain tumor? Back when Ashley was a state senator in the early seventies, one of his colleagues came down with a brain tumor. Ashley tried vainly to remember what the man’s symptoms had been, but he couldn’t. All he could remember was seeing the man become a shadow of his former self before dying.

The door to the outer office cracked open. Dawn’s carefully coiffed head poked in. “Carol just called on her cell phone. She’ll be at the rendezvous location in five minutes.”

Ashley nodded and got to his feet. Encouragingly, he had no difficulty whatsoever. The fact that the medication Dr. Whitman had given him had seemingly worked miracles was to him the only bright spot in the whole affair. The worrisome symptoms had all but disappeared save for a bit of hand shaking just prior to another dose. If the problem could so easily be treated, perhaps he shouldn’t worry so much. At least that’s what he tried to convince himself.

Carol was right on time, as Ashley expected. She’d been working with him for sixteen years of his near-thirty-year senatorial tenure and had proved her reliability, dedication, and loyalty over and over. As they headed for Virginia, she even tried to take advantage of the time by discussing the day’s events and what to expect for the morrow, but she quickly caught on to the degree of Ashley’s preoccupation and fell silent. Instead, she concentrated on the hellish traffic.

Ashley’s anxiety ratcheted upward the closer they got to the doctor’s office. By the time he got out of the car, his perspiration had reappeared. Over the years, Ashley had learned to listen to his intuition, and his intuition was setting off alarm bells. There was something wrong in his brain, and he knew it, and he knew he was trying to deny it.

The appointment had been scheduled for Ashley’s benefit after the doctor’s regular office hours, and a sepulchral stillness hung over the vacant waiting room. The only light came from a small desk lamp creating a dim puddle of illumination on the empty receptionist’s desk. Ashley and Carol stood for a moment, unsure of what to do. Then an inner door opened, flooding the space with raw fluorescent light. Within the doorway was Dr. Whitman’s featureless backlit silhouette.

“Sorry about this inhospitable welcome,” Dr. Whitman said. “Everyone has gone home.” He flipped a wall switch. He was dressed in a starched white doctor’s coat. His demeanor was all business.

“No need for an apology,” Ashley said. “We appreciate your discretion.” He eyed the doctor’s face, hoping for some softening of his expression to interpret as an auspicious sign. There wasn’t any.

“Senator, please come into my office.” Dr. Whitman motioned within. “Ms. Manning, if you would be so good as to wait out here.”

The doctor’s office was a study in compulsive neatness. The furniture consisted of a desk with two guest chairs. The objects on the desk were all carefully aligned, while the books in the bookshelf were arranged according to size.

Dr. Whitman motioned to one of the guest chairs before taking his own seat. With elbows on the desk, he steepled his fingers. He stared at Ashley once the senator was seated. There was a pregnant pause.

Ashley had never been quite so uncomfortable. His anxiety had peaked. Ashley had spent most of his adult life jockeying for power, and he’d succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Yet at that moment, he was utterly powerless.

“You said on the phone that the medication I gave you helped,” Dr. Whitman began.

“Wonderfully,” Ashley exclaimed, suddenly cheered by Dr. Whitman’s starting with the positive. “Almost all my symptoms disappeared.”

Dr. Whitman nodded knowingly. His expression remained inscrutable.

“I would have assumed that was good news.”

“It helps us make the diagnosis,” Dr. Whitman said.

“Well… what is it?” Ashley asked after an uncomfortable pause. “What’s the diagnosis?”

“The medication was a form of levodopa,” Dr. Whitman began in a doctoral tone. “The body can convert it into dopamine, which is a substance involved in some neuronal transmission.”

Ashley took a deep breath. A sudden wave of anger threatened to bubble to the surface. He didn’t want to be lectured, as if he were a student. He wanted the diagnosis. He felt he was being teased like a cat teases a cornered mouse.

“You’ve lost some cells that are involved with the production of dopamine,” Dr. Whitman continued. “These cells are in a part of your brain called the substantia nigra.”

Ashley held up his hands as if surrendering. He suppressed his urge to lash out verbally by swallowing with some difficulty. “Doctor, let’s get to the point. What do you think my diagnosis is?”

“I’m about ninety-five percent sure you have Parkinson’s disease,” Dr. Whitman said. He leaned back. His desk chair squeaked.

For a moment, Ashley didn’t speak. He didn’t know much about Parkinson’s disease, but it didn’t sound good, and some images of celebrities struggling with the disorder popped into his mind. At the same time, he felt relieved he’d not been told he had a brain tumor or ALS. He cleared his throat.

“Is this something that can be cured?” Ashley allowed himself to ask.

“Currently, no,” Dr. Whitman said. “But as you’ve experienced with the medication I gave you, it can be controlled for a time.”

“What does that mean?”

“We can keep you relatively symptom-free for a while, maybe a year, maybe longer. Unfortunately, because of your history of relatively rapidly developing symptoms, in my experience the medications will lose their effectiveness more quickly than with many other patients. At that point, the disease will be progressively debilitating. We’ll just have to deal with each circumstance as it arises.”

“This is a disaster,” Ashley mumbled. He was overwhelmed by the implications. His worst fears were coming to pass.